Chapter 4

Kane didn't pull away. Instead, he tightened his grip on the glass of amber liquid in his other hand, his knuckles white. The power dynamic in the room shifted instantly. Cillian had the medical leverage, but Kane owned the air he was breathing.

"Diagnose faster then," Kane said, stepping closer. The scent of expensive cologne and something metallic—like old coins and dried blood—hit Cillian's senses. "Because the itching is starting to feel like needles under my skin. Again."

Cillian shifted his thumb, pressing firmly against a pulsing node near the wrist. Kane let out a sharp, jagged hiss, his body jolting. For a split second, the Blood Pact flared. Cillian felt a phantom spike of agony shoot up his own arm, a mirrored echo of Kane's pain. He gasped, his knees buckling slightly, but he didn't let go.

"That's the Bone-Eater eating its way toward your radius," Cillian whispered, his face now inches from Kane's. He could see the gold flecks in Kane's dark irises, a predatory shimmer that didn't match the agony in his expression. "You’re rotting from the inside, Kane. And you’re doing a great job of pretending it’s just a bad flu."

Kane’s eyes narrowed. He suddenly surged forward, pinning Cillian against the edge of the desk. The heavy wood dug into Cillian's lower back, and Kane’s chest was a wall of heat pressing against him.

"I don't pay for bedside manners," Kane murmured, his breath hot against Cillian's ear. "I pay for results. Tell me who put this in me, and maybe I won't decide that your tongue is an unnecessary organ."

Cillian laughed, a dry, jagged sound. He didn't move, despite the overwhelming pressure of Kane's body. "Pay me? You’re the one tethered to a disgraced surgeon by a blood spell you didn't even understand. If I die, you go with me. Maybe a little more honesty would help your blood pressure."

Kane’s hand slid from the desk to Cillian’s throat—not squeezing, but resting there, the thumb grazing the line of his jaw. The contact was electric. Cillian felt his own pulse hammering against Kane's palm, a frantic rhythm that betrayed his outward confidence.

"Honesty is for people who can afford it," Kane said. His voice dropped an octave, becoming a dangerous caress. "In this house, we deal in secrets. Now, tell me about the extraction. You mentioned a 'darker' method in your notes."

Cillian swallowed hard. He could feel the heat radiating from Kane, the sheer magnetic pull of a man who was used to breaking everything he touched. "It's not a method, it's a risk. I have to enter the curse's core. I have to feel it. If I miscalculate the resonance, the Bone-Eater won't just eat your marrow—it'll jump to me."

"Sounds like a fair trade," Kane whispered, his face drifting closer.

Cillian could see the tiny tremor in Kane's lip. The arrogance was a mask, a thin layer of gold leaf over a crumbling ruin. He wanted to push him away, but his hand stayed frozen on Kane's arm, the skin burning under his touch. The tension between them wasn't just about the curse; it was a violent, magnetic friction, the kind that happened when two people who hated each other realized they were the only ones who could save each other.

"Get out of my space," Cillian breathed, though he didn't move an inch.

Kane smirked, a slow, cruel curve of the lips. "You're in my house, Cillian. My room. My bed is ten feet away. I think I'll decide when you've had enough space."

Cillian shoved him back with a sudden, desperate strength. "I'm a doctor, not a toy. Now, sit. I need to check the spinal alignment before the next session, or the curse will snap your vertebrae like dry twigs."

Kane sighed, the sound halfway between a groan and a laugh. He sank into the leather armchair, sprawling his long legs across the floor. "Fine. But if you try to sneak any more 'experimental' serums into my IV, I'll have your medical license burned in the fireplace. Oh wait—you don't have one anymore."

"Fuck you," Cillian muttered, reaching for his kit.

"You're welcome," Kane replied, eyes closing, though his body remained coiled like a spring.

Cillian worked in silence for a few minutes, the only sound the metallic click of his tools. He leaned over Kane, his fingers tracing the vertebrae of the man's neck. He felt the heat there—a localized fever that shouldn't exist. As his fingers brushed the base of the skull, he felt it: a sharp, cold vibration.

It was a warning.

Suddenly, the air in the room turned frigid. The lights flickered, casting long, distorted shadows against the gilded walls. Cillian froze.

"Do you feel that?" Cillian whispered.

Kane's eyes snapped open, but they weren't gold anymore. They were bleeding black, the ink of the curse flooding the iris. He didn't answer. He couldn't. His jaw locked, and a guttural, wet sound tore from his throat.

Then, the snap happened.

It wasn't a physical sound, but a psychic one. A violent rupture of the Blood Pact. Cillian felt it like a lightning strike to the center of his chest. He was thrown backward, his head hitting the mahogany desk with a sickening thud.

He gasped for air, but the oxygen felt like shards of glass in his lungs. He looked up, vision blurring, and saw Kane arched off the chair, his back curving at an impossible angle. Black smoke—thick, oily, and smelling of ancient graves—was pouring out of Kane's pores, swirling around him like a living shroud.

"Kane!" Cillian screamed, trying to scramble forward.

But as he reached out, a bolt of black energy slammed into his chest, throwing him across the room. He hit the wall hard, the wind knocked out of him. He looked down at his hands and saw the black veins of the Bone-Eater beginning to crawl up his own wrists, mirroring Kane's infection.

The curse wasn't just reacting. It was migrating.

Cillian tried to stand, but his legs felt like lead. The world began to tilt, the gold of the room fading into a suffocating gray. He saw Kane's silhouette in the center of the smoke, a dark god of agony, reaching out a hand toward him.

"Cillian..." Kane's voice was no longer human. It was a chorus of a thousand whispering dead.

Cillian reached for his scalpel, the only weapon he knew, but his fingers wouldn't obey. The darkness rushed in, filling his vision, filling his mind, and just as he felt the first bite of the curse hitting his marrow, the heavy double doors of the study slammed open with a crash that shook the floor.

"I knew I'd find you playing god in here, Cillian!"

Cillian blinked through the haze. Standing in the doorway, framed by the light of the hallway and a look of pure triumph, was Lilith. She wasn't alone. Behind her stood two men in black suits, their faces devoid of emotion, holding a legal document that looked more like a death warrant than a contract.

"Get away from him," Lilith commanded, her voice ringing with a cold, surgical precision. "Before I have you dragged out of here in chains for what you've actually been doing to my patient."

Cillian tried to speak, to tell her that Kane was literally dissolving into shadow, but his voice was gone. He could only watch as Lilith stepped forward, her eyes landing on the black veins on his wrist.

She didn't look horrified. She looked delighted.

"Oh," she whispered, a cruel smile touching her lips. "It finally jumped. How perfectly convenient."